A Funeral for Jorge

I have been delaying this post for fear of belittling the situation. I am sorry if you were expecting to hear from me sooner, but I have been trying to figure out how to put this into words while at the same time showing my utmost respect.

The death of Jorge Ivan Cruz Gonzalez evoked something of a trauma in everyone around him. There was no time to prepare, and only two days to say goodbye. Jorge was the Philosophy Professor at Universidad de Caldas in Manizales, Colombia. He had a following of adoring students and forward-thinkers. He had a family that doted on every quiet word he spoke. And he had the right to be heard, however quiet and slurred, because he was brilliant.

I met Jorge on a sunny Tuesday afternoon in August. He had taught in the morning and promptly purchased a bottle of Aguardiente to celebrate the hours after twelve. I had just finished Spanish lessons with his daughter Paula, my now friend and roommate. We were drinking wine and whiskey "porque es martes!" and decided to meet at his favorite tienda near Santander and Carerra 23.

The first time I saw Jorge, I wanted to hug him. He was so incredibly sweet. So honest. He reminded me of my grandpa. I imagined myself sitting on his lap while he told me stories of heartache and horror and that massive fish he caught in '68. I imagined we'd been friends forever and, luckily, was immediately accepted into his community. The "boys" at the store (all over sixty) listened attentively as I regaled on stories of days gone by in the Big City. They wanted to know the ultimate question... Why Manizales?

"La gente!" I replied. "Como tu!" I spoke the truth. These were the moments I treasured most! Shooting the shit with real Colombians in a small store in Manizales. I felt like I was part of something. Laughter erupted and then was silenced by a crumpled recording of "Nathalie". They stopped everything and listened to this sad, and beautiful song. Jorge cried and took my hand while singing the lyrics. Then, they laughed and squeezed my shoulder while they poured me another plastic shot glass 

of Aguardiente.

Jorge talked with his hands, his wrists making a dance while he explained whatever grand philosophy he was enthralled with at the moment. Unfortunately, my limited Spanish prevented me from fully understanding these beautiful ideas. I wanted desperately to understand. He's written books! I want to read them! But I can't. Perhaps someday...

I spent two days with him in total. A measly amount to claim any sort of "mourning", but I did. I cried with my roommate over the injustice of her father's untimely death. I cooked for her family so they wouldn't forget to eat. I went to the viewing, but couldn't bring myself to look at him. He was so light and funny in our interactions, I knew this heavy cold body wouldn't bring justice to his memory.

What struck me most was his family. They were so close, and now one of their favorite members was gone. They consoled each other, cried, laughed, and stared blankly into the abyss of Jorge's image. They cheered to his memory as they filled a plastic shot glass with Aguardiente. They read his words and wept. They felt his presence leave, and respected the sorrow. They allowed time to grieve.

Here in Colombia, most people are Catholic. The tradition for the dead is very different than that of the United States. There is a viewing, an elaborate mass, and a Noventa. I wish I could research more on the subject, but from what I can gather, a Noventa is nine days after cremation that people can attend and pray for the deceased. Jorge has a crowd every night.

At one point, we were all joking in the tienda. We were drinking and our smiles were freer, our voices more loose. I told Jorge I liked his hat. It was a British-inspired "newsies" hat with little patterns. I loved it. In Spanish he said, "You... You can have it when I'm dead!" We all erupted in laughter. What a thought!

Two weeks later, Paula brought home his hat. Her eyes were red with grief, but her voice was determined. "He said 'You can have it when I'm dead'. It is yours." I took the hat with sadness, and a heavy dose of shame. I knew her words were true, but I felt like an imposter.

I will take your hat, Jorge, but I will think of you fondly EVERY time I see it. I will cook for your daughter, your wife, your sister, and anyone else that has felt your presence. I will never pour a shot of Aguardiente without thinking of you. I hope you're making God laugh. And get him drunk, will ya? He's far too serious...

Here's to you, Jorge.